


Here comes the flood

by etoile_etiolee



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, deaged!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-08
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-28 20:42:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/996458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etoile_etiolee/pseuds/etoile_etiolee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for maypoles.  She wanted physically deaged!Dean with a twist, unable to deal with Hell and Purgatory memories as his emotionnal capacity is one of a kid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here comes the flood

"You're a thousand minds, within a flash  
Don't be afraid to cry at what you see"  
Here comes the flood, Peter Gabriel

At first, Sam’s reaction is simple. He feels his heart swelling in his chest and the only thing he can think of is: _awww._

The little boy sitting on the bed next to his is lost in Dean’s shirt, his blond head peeking out. His chin wobbles and he takes his tiny hands to his face, looking at them, his big green eyes crossing in surprise. He blinks, long lashes fluttering against freckled skin. Then, finally, he looks at Sam.

“Sammy,” he says in a high-pitched voice, then shakes his head. “Holy sh-“

The kid claps his hands over his mouth.

Sam sits on the side of his bed and rubs at his eyes. He knows what’s going on. They’ve been waiting for it since yesterday night when a simple hunt became a not-so-simple hunt. Dealing with kids is always difficult, and the little girl –Nathalie- had been barely seven years old. She’d started to show signs of mental powers and began to use them in a very clumsy way without even noticing she’d been doing it.

All she wanted was a dog. She hadn’t meant for her father to turn into one.

There hadn’t been much they could do but help the poor mother understand what was happening. Nathalie had been devastated when she finally got that she was responsible for her father’s state and the disappearance of her school principal — he hadn’t really disappeared; instead, he had woken up on a beach in Hawaii. She hadn’t known how to “make it better”.

As it had turned out, Nathalie’s actions were only temporary. Her father had remained a dog for a day before turning back, naked, terrified, and scratching at his ear with his left foot. The flowers that had grown through the snow were dead a couple of hours later. As for the school principal, apparently, he had been sitting in a Hawaiian police station, trying to explain that he should be in Maine, when he had vanished into thin air and reappeared in his bed next to his wife.

The whole thing had been kind of funny. They’d found a psychic living not too far from the area listed among Bobby’s contacts who would be able to help Nathalie with her new-found powers. Dean had been… He’d been fond of the little girl, had spent some time with her, and just before they parted, she hugged him, then, as she let him go abruptly, made a terrified face and started to cry.

“I’m sorry! I think I did it again!” She sobbed, running into her mother’s arms.

Nathalie had noticed a strange buzzing noise in her head every time she’d been “doing magic” as she’d said. Between her tears, they were able to discover that the buzz had happened again and she seemed to have wished to have a friend like Dean but not so old.

Dean and Sam comforted her. “See? I’m all right. Don’t worry about it,” Dean had said, poking at her nose to make her smile.

But they both knew it was only a matter of time. Nathalie had been wishing for a dog a whole day before her father had turned into one. It’d taken even less time for the principal to be teleported. When they were both sitting in the Impala, Dean had pointed an accusing finger in Sam’s direction. “Whatever happens to me, no freaking photos, do I make myself clear?”

“Maybe I should drive,” Sam had deadpanned, not compromising himself by making promises he wouldn’t be able to keep.

And now, here they are; Sam with a tiny, adorable, and very grumpy Dean sitting in the bed next to him with his chubby little hands planted on his mouth and a horrified expression on his face.

“Dean? Are you still… well, you?”

“Are you stupid or what? Have you _looked_ at me?” Tiny Dean replies with a high-pitched voice.

“I mean, you’re still thirty-four years old… In your head…”

“Apparently.”

“Jesus, you can’t be more than three, maybe four… Your body, I mean. Whatever. How do you feel?”

“Like I need to take a piss,” which sounds like a profanity coming out of the plumped lips of a toddler.

Dean gets his legs off the mattress and starts to stand up, but the floor is way too far from him and he face-plants in a tiny ball between their beds, all tangled up in his adult-sized clothes.

Sam thinks he deserves a medal, then, because he’s sure he burst a couple of blood vessels from clenching his jaw to keep from laughing.

“Not a word,” Dean’s muffled voice comes out from under the clothes pile.

::: :::

At first, Sam thinks they’ll be all right. Dean is in a very, very bad mood but it’s kind of hard to take him seriously when he can’t even reach Sam’s waist standing up. They decide to stay at the motel until the curse is lifted. They have a long discussion as to whether it’s best for Dean to go with Sam to pick up some breakfast or to stay alone at the motel. Sam can only imagine what it must look like, an adult speaking to a child calling him _dude_ and debating very seriously of the danger of someone taking Sam for a perv, driving with a kid wearing an old t-shirt that goes down his knees in the passenger seat; or a maid calling social services if she discovers the same lost-in-his-t-shirt kid alone in the motel room, surfing the net for porn.

They decide on the latter. Sam hangs the do-not-disturb sign on the doorknob and ignores his physically-three-year-old brother yelling for a coffee as he closes the door behind him. There’s no way he’s bringing Dean coffee. The caffeine would drive his already febrile body into an over-excited mode.

::: :::

When Sam comes back, he finds Dean still looking three-years-old, sitting with his little legs crossed on the bed. He’s biting the nail of his thumb, looking at the laptop opened in front of him. He’s wearing a pair of socks that are pulled up to his knees and some boxers barely hanging onto his waist by a bandana serving as a makeshift belt. Dean is nothing if not inventive and Sam grins at the sight.

“So, the father remained a dog for a little more than twenty-four hours, the principal’s curse has lasted eighteen. I think we’ll be good to go tomorrow morning.” Dean tells Sam, frowning at him and wrinkling his nose. “I don’t smell coffee.”

“I bought you a cocoa,” Sam offers hopefully.

“Fuck you.” Dean looks outraged. And cute. Did Sam mention _cute_?

Dean achieves the delicate task of getting off the bed without falling, turning onto his belly and twisting until his feet hit the floor. As he walks to the table in his strange outfit, Sam notices with amusement that he already has his particular bow-legged stance, which basically makes him look like he just started walking.

“What are you smiling at? Dean grumbles.

He stares at his chair with a mix of annoyance and determination.

“Want me to help you up?” Sam offers.

“I won’t even answer to zat,” Dean answers, lisping a little and blushing furiously.

He manages to climb onto the chair, though, grabbing the seat with both hands and hoisting himself up, grunting and panting. At one point, his tiny butt is all that juts over the table and Sam bursts out laughing because, hell, he’s only human after all.

“Shut up,” Dean’s red face pokes over the table as well. “You think it’s easy?”

“No, no, I’m sorry.” Sam clears his throat and offers a Danish pastry to Dean as a peace offering. He takes it in both of his hands and opens his mouth as wide as he can, taking a very tiny looking bite.

He probably doesn’t notice it, but his legs are swinging under the table while he’s chewing and making tiny satisfying sounds. He can’t reach his Styrofoam cocoa cup and Sam pushes it towards him, wondering if it’s too big and if Dean is going to spill the hot liquid all over himself, when he manages it, wrapping both of his hands around it, taking a careful sip that leaves a creamy moustache over his lips.

“Come on, Dean. Just one picture,” Sam pleads.

“No way, dude,” Dean scowls, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.

Then it happens. Somewhere outside, a car engine roars, there’s a faint explosion and the sound of rubber screeching against the road. Sam barely notices it.

Dean gasps, his small face scrunching up and paling at an alarming rate.

He’s absolutely terrified, his eyes wide and searching the space all around him, looking for…

… _an escape_?

“Dean, man, it’s only a car,” Sam states. “It just backfired.”

“I know. Why are you telling me this?” Tiny Dean asks, raising a blond eyebrow in a comical imitation of his older self.

Still… Sam can tell something is not right. He watches Dean carefully as his brother takes another bite of his Danish. But this time, he doesn’t look like he’s enjoying it. He chews very slowly, looking out the window, with this so-familiar concerned frown that never quite leaves his face these days. When he swallows, it seems forced and painful.

Dean grumbles something about his ridiculously small stomach and jumps off his chair clumsily. As he walks away, his boxers slide down his waist and he has to grab them with both hands to keep them up.

“Where are you going, dude?”

“Peeing.”

“Again?”

“I’m three fucking years old, Sam,” Dean yells with annoyance over his shoulders.

Sam doesn’t say a word and goes to open the bathroom door for him. Dean shuts it back using his leg. Then, Sam hears the lock getting engaged.

“Dean, don’t lock the door!”

“Oh for Christ sake, _why_? Afraid I’m going to drown in the toilet?” Dean snaps back.

But the uneasiness Sam feels just won’t go away. He goes back to finish his breakfast, listening carefully to any sound that might come from the bathroom. It’s too quiet. When he still hasn’t heard the toilet flushing after five minutes, he stands up and goes to knock at the door. “Dean? You alright in there?”

Nothing.

“Dean?” Sam repeats; concern and worry now clear in his voice.

“Fuck off. Can’t a guy pee in peace?” Dean answers back, but there is something wrong with his voice – well, more wrong than just the fact that it’s a kid’s voice. It’s…

Sam presses his ear up to the door and there. And again. Tiny, choked hiccups followed by sudden intakes of breaths.

“Dean, what’s going on?”

“Leave me alone!” Dean yells and then, this time, he can’t muffle the sob that escapes at the end.

“Come on. Open the door, Dean,” Sam practically coos.

There is no answer except another sob and a harsh, choked sniffing sound right after.

Sam plays with the door handle, _but it would be too simple, wouldn’t it?_ He goes to fetch his tools and it takes him about two seconds before he hears the lock opening. He pulls the door open and his heart breaks at the sight in front of him.

Dean is sitting on the floor, back pressed to the bathtub, his scrawny knees tucked close to his body, arms wrapped around them. His blond head is tucked downward and his whole body is shaking with the force of his nearly silent sobs.

Sam immediately crouches down and has to remind himself that this little boy is still his adult, badass hunter of a brother somewhere inside to stop himself from scooping him up and gathering him into his arms.

“What’s wrong, Dean?”

“Fugg off,” Dean hiccups without raising his head, his face hidden by his hair, so pale and blond and delicate.

“Tell me what’s going on. You’re crying, Dean.”

“Can’t freaking’ help it. Can’t… My head… It’s too full, too much, and I can’t…”

“Okay, all right, it’s okay, Dean,” Sam babbles. “Maybe… Maybe it’s because huh…”

“I know what it is,” Dean protests with energy, his voice thin and damp. He lifts his head, then, and Sam’s heart breaks all over again at the sight of the small face, eyes shining with tears still to shed, cheeks blotched and wet with those that have already fallen. His chin is wobbling and his mouth quirked in a desperate pout. He’s got clear snot coming out of his little nose covered in freckles. There is so much suffering written across those delicate features; the weight of all the years can be read like ancient parchment. And it’s so wrong, so unfair, like witnessing life playing a cruel joke and showing itself on a seemingly innocent face.

“Oh, Dean,” Sam murmurs. “Dean, I’m so sorry.”

“For what?” Dean snaps, trying to look mad but just succeeding in showing more fear, more despair. “T’stupid… Can’t help it… S’like my freaking three-year-old brain can’t manage… I…” Dean shakes his head and breaks into a loud, harsh sob. “Can’t help… it S-Sammy…” He repeats, pressing his hands to his eyes. “It’s too much… How… I can’t stop. It won’t stop. Damn it…”

And at this moment, Sam gets it -- how Dean’s current emotional maturity can’t cope with everything that has happened to him, how he can’t use the good ol’ trick of shoving everything somewhere deep until all that’s left is a sad numbness. How the usual _fine, I’m fine, Sam. Let it go. Leave me alone I’d be fine if you’d just shut the fuck up about it_ and all the defenses he has raised around his broken psyche over the years won’t work.

Dean is shaken by a violent shiver and wails like the little three-year-old boy he’s become carrying the weight of the world. And when he looks at Sam, his pain is so raw and deep Sam has to fight not to close his eyes against it. “Get i-it out of my head, S-sammy! Get it ou-out!” He pleads desperately. And even though Sam knows on a purely intellectual level, that Dean is still, somewhere, somehow, a grown man, what’s in front of him is a freaking three-year-old coming apart, a kid who’s been to Hell and back, Purgatory and back, and with a whole lot of fuckery in between, pleading for Sam to help him.

He scoops Dean in his arms and hugs him tightly against his chest.

Dean’s reaction is immediate. “What the f-fuck, Sam? P-put me down! Let g-go of me!” He yells, fighting and thrashing like a trapped animal until one of his hands finds Sam’s cheek and he’s digging his fingernails into the skin, scratching and tearing at it hard enough that Sam can’t help but cry out in pain, simultaneously releasing the hold he has on his brother.

Sam wipes the blood oozing from his cheek and tries to get himself back together. Thirty-four-year-old Dean would react that way, even while asking for help and having his mind torn apart by too much horror. What is Sam supposed to do? _What_?

God, it feels like he’d spent his entire life asking himself this question.

Dean has let himself slide on the floor where he’s curled into a small ball on his side, still crying, swallowing down his sobs, futilely trying to stop the flow of his tears. He covers his face with his arms, mumbling in low, desperate whispers, “I don’t wanna see, please don’t make me see it all over again.”

Dean tucks his knees high against his chest, visibly shaking. “M’sorry, Sam,” he manages to hiccup between sobs.

Sam is crying as well now, tears mixing with the blood and the salt pricks at his wound. He lays a tentative hand on the little boy’s back. Dean tenses for a long second but doesn’t react otherwise, and Sam, encouraged by the lack of rejection, begins rubbing soothing circles on the small back, feeling the shivers course through his brother, the skin hot and damp under the cotton of the shirt.

“Dean, it’s okay,” he rasps after a while. “It’s just temporary. Try to relax, please.”

And it sounds so wrong, telling a small boy terrified out of his mind to try to relax, so Sam keeps on rubbing Dean’s back as his brother goes on sobbing, small whimpers and inaudible words escaping him from time to time. Sam can only hope that he’s going to cry himself to sleep, wishes for exhaustion to take its hold on him and wash the unbearable horror of his life away.

“No please, don’t,” the boy pleads, voice raw and broken, his body jerking suddenly, and the acrid smell of urine fills the air.

Dean stops crying, stops moving, and his tensed body goes lax. Sam thinks that finally, finally, his brother must have passed out, but when he gets a closer look, he sees that Dean’s eyes are wide open, so big in his swollen face.

He has his thumb in his mouth and there is a faint movement of his lips, a regular rhythm.

Dean is sucking his thumb. His hair is wet with sweat, his little chest shaking with big, hiccuppy sighs. He’s locked himself somewhere where it doesn’t hurt, the look on his face far and away.

“God, Dean,” Sam murmurs, smearing the tears from his own face with his palms.

He hopes once his brother gets back to his adult body, all this pain he can’t deal with in this form will go back to wherever he’s been hiding it, pushed down to where he can manage it, far behind his defenses.

For now, what Sam has in front of him is a catatonic and broken three-year-old. He caresses his cheeks, murmurs tenderly. “M’gonna take care of you, Dean. You don’t have to worry. I’ve got it.”

Dean keeps on sucking on his thumb. Sam makes his way around him, still on his knees, and reaches out to the rusty tap of the shower and twists it, filling the stained, old bathtub, making sure the water isn’t too hot. Meanwhile, he grabs a towel and lays it down on the floor. When he gathers Dean’s limp body into his arms, he’s overwhelmed by how light his brother is; it feels almost like he’s carrying nothing. He delicately lays him on the towel and starts to undress him, Dean’s skin is covered in goose bumps, pale and freckled, and free of all the scars that will transform his body into the illustrated story of his trade. To take his shirt off, Sam has to pull Dean’s thumb out of his mouth. He feels a small resistance, and then Dean is clapping his tongue on his palate, sucking into nothing, lips swollen and damp. As soon as the shirt is pulled out, the thumb goes slowly back to where it seems to belong, the faint source of comfort that only a young child can manage.

Sam takes the naked, innocent body of his brother and lays him in the bath, leaving one arm around his back and shoulders, not caring about getting himself wet. Dean shivers at first, sucks at his thumb harder, but then the warm water seems to soothe him somehow and his body gives up. He blinks unfocusedly as Sam slowly washes him, whispering comforting words as a constant litany, a strange lullaby of “you’re okay” and “I got you.”

Bath done, Sam lifts Dean out of the water, wrapping his brother into the towel. He stands up with his tiny brother gathered into his arms, hushing him and swaying back and forth while he walks them back to the room. He sits on the bed, feeling kind of numb, out of place and submerged by an unbearable sadness. He doesn’t want to let go of Dean. Ever.

Dean’s eyelids begin to droop. It’s a slow, lazy process. Sam runs his fingers through the little boy’s hair. “Yeah, Dean, let it go. Sleep. You’ll feel better later. I promise.” Sweet lie.

Without letting go, Sam pulls the comforter down with one hand and gets Dean settled on the bed. He dries his hair as gently as he can and stands up to go to his duffle. He picks up his old grey hoodie from the bottom and wraps Dean inside it, then pulls up the comforter until all that’s visible is Dean’s face on the white pillow. Dean’s struggling to keep his eyes open, his thumb has slipped from his mouth and is resting on the corner of his lips. Sam lies down on top of the comforter next to him and wraps his arm around his brother.

He wishes for the curse to lift. He wishes to never again see a child bearing so much pain.

He could always calls the Nathalie’s family, ask her to wish Dean back, but she can’t. They’ve tried that before. He can’t mess with this anymore than it already has.

“Sleep, Dean,” he repeats. “Sleep, it’ll get better.”

Dean eventually falls asleep, and as he does, his body shifts closer until he’s pressed up against Sam. His respiration slows down, with a few last hiccups, and he sighs in his sleep. Sam doesn’t even think about moving. He just stays there, observing the young face that looks almost peaceful for a while. Loses notion of time after a while because, somehow, he takes as much comfort in the closeness of his brother’s shrunken body as Dean probably does.

Then it starts. Dean’s delicate features tense suddenly and his body jerks. He frowns, shakes his head from left to right. There’s a moment, and then he twitches again.

 _Nightmare._ Sam instinctively reacts – he knows how horrifying it can be to be trapped in a hell flashback, or to relive again and again the death of someone once loved and cherished lost to flames – “Dean, wake up,” he says, shaking his brother’s shoulders and keeping his voice firm and loud. “Come on, Dean. Snap out of it. It’s just a dream.”

Dean’s mouth opens wide and he takes a shuddering breath, like he’s been holding it underwater. He opens his eyes and looks at Sam, looks all around him, his expression one of unbearable terror.

“He’s got me,” the small boy whispers, voice harsh and raw from all the crying.

“No he doesn’t. Nothing’s got you, Dean. S’just you and me here.”

Dean’s chubby hands rise to his face once again and he presses hard on his eyes. “Leave me alone,” he whispers, but Sam knows it’s not addressed to him.

“You’re awake, Dean. Nothing’s going to hurt you.” Sam runs his fingers through Dean’s hair. His brother doesn’t react. After a while, he lowers his hands and sticks his thumb in his mouth again. This time, though, he seems to be perfectly aware of doing it, and he shuts his eyes, refuses to look at Sam as a vivid blush crawls up his cheeks to the tip of his ears.

Sam sits up slowly, giving Dean some space. He stretches his too long body, feeling old and used.

“M’gonna get you something to drink, okay?”

Dean nods before burying his head into the pillow. The silent in the room seems eerie and delicate, ready to break at any moments.

Sam goes to the bathroom to fill a glass of water, then picks up Dean’s barely-eaten Danish pastry and sits back on the bed.

Dean is sitting on the bed, his back leaning on the pillow, clearly exhausted and spent, sweater sleeves bunching over his arms, only his tiny fingers visible. He isn’t sucking on his thumb anymore and has a haunted look that’s a shocking contrast with the youthful aspect of his body.

Sam hands him the glass of water and Dean drinks it eagerly, water dripping down his chin, not stopping until he has to take a breath.

“Want to finish your pastry?” Sam asks.

Dean shakes his head and lies back down, dragging the comforter over himself. He doesn’t close his eyes, doesn’t speak, just put his thumb back into his mouth and stares into nothingness, shivering violently. After a while, Sam rises and goes to the TV, turning it on, before crossing the room to the radiator and cranking the heat the highest it can go. He sits back carefully on the bed, flips through the channels with the remote until he finds a rerun of Dukes of Hazzard and leaves it on.

Dean doesn’t seem to react at first but he doesn’t seem to mind either. Sam knows his brother is giving him quick looks once in a while when he thinks Sam doesn’t see him. He knows too that Dean is an inextricable mess of humiliation and fear, of innocence and experience, so he just sits next to him and watches the show, although he doesn’t have the faintest idea of what’s going on in it. Sam’s tensed and upset, just hoping that whatever Dean is doing right now to comfort himself, he can keep it up for his own sake.

After a while, Dean shifts on himself so that he can look at the TV. After Dukes of Hazzard comes Gilligan’s island. By the time Gilligan has screwed up the escape plan once again, Dean’s eyes are starting to close and his lips are slack around his thumb.

Sam waits patiently until his brother falls asleep again. Only then does he lies back down and resumes his previous position, with Dean tucked into a ball resting in the crook of his arm. This time, Sam falls asleep too. He dreams of unending roads leading nowhere and of the smell of whisky, of John telling him to watch over Dean, because it’s his job.

::: :::

“Sam? You hungry?”

Sam jerks awake and sits up abruptly. A headache is growing behind his eyes, his t-shirt damp with sweat and there’s a vague throbbing in his left cheek.

It’s dark outside.

Dean is standing up near the kitchenette table, a paper bag in each hand. Thirty-four-year-old Dean. Pale, eyelids blue and swollen, that haunted look still in his eyes. But still. _Dean_.

“Yeah, I am. What time is it?”

“Almost six.” His brother’s voice is hoarse and raw. Dean turns his back to Sam as he puts the food on the table, his shoulders hunched forward. This, this is a very delicate moment right here. Sam feels like a single word coming out of his mouth could break his brother all over again.

He joins Dean and sits across from him at the table. His brother is playing with his food, taking his time to unwrap the burger, to put the straw in his drink’s lid, to drown his fries in ketchup, but he doesn’t look that hungry.

After a while, Sam can’t bear the heaviness of the silence anymore. “So… when did you change back?”

Dean shrugs, keeping his head lowered. “Don’t know. Woke up around four. Like this.”

“Do you… do you remember?”

Dean’s head snaps up and he looks straight at Sam, impassable. “We’re not gonna talk about this.” He states calmly. Too calmly. And Sam decides to let it go.

“Okay. As long as you feel all right now…”

“I’m fine. Eat up so we can get the hell out of here.”

And that’s that.

 

Fin


End file.
